Chapter 3 - THE WAITING GAMEFor three horrific seconds, my heart stopped completely.
Victoria stood in the soft blue glow of the under-cabinet lighting, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her expression completely unreadable in the shadows.
“Andrew?” her voice drifted across the marble island. “What are you doing in the dark?”
I stepped smoothly out of the pantry, holding a small box of herbal tea I had grabbed off the shelf in a fraction of a second.
“Couldn't sleep,” I said, keeping my voice smooth, relaxed, and slightly groggy. “Jet lag from Chicago. I was looking for Chamomile.”
Victoria didn't move. Her gaze shifted slowly from my face down to the box of tea in my hand, then back up to my eyes. The silence between us stretched until it felt like thin glass ready to shatter.
“There’s bottled water in the sub-zero fridge,” she said quietly, her tone dripping with suspicion. “You don't need to go digging through the pantry.”
“Thanks,” I smiled, setting the box on the counter. “Michael’s house is a bit of a maze at night.”
She walked slowly toward the island, her silk robe rustling against her ankles. She set her empty glass on the counter, inches from where my hand rested. “Michael told me you were asking questions about Chloe during dinner.”
“I was just concerned, Victoria. She looked small. Pale.”
“She’s five,” Victoria said, stepping so close I could smell her heavy, floral perfume mixing with the sharp scent of red wine. “Children push boundaries, Andrew. They test their parents. They make up wild stories to see how much attention they can get from gullible relatives. Michael and I have everything under control. We don't need an investigative reporter analyzing our family dynamic.”
The underlying threat was unmistakable.
“I’m her uncle, Victoria,” I replied softly. “Not a reporter. Not in this house.”
She searched my eyes for another long, suffocating moment before giving a tight, artificial nod. “Good. Because Michael has a very big year coming up with the IPO. We can’t afford any domestic distraction. Get some sleep, Andrew.”
She turned and walked up the glass staircase, her heels making soft, deliberate clicks against the stone.
I stood alone in the kitchen until her bedroom door upstairs clicked shut. My back was soaked in cold sweat.
I returned to the guest room, but I didn't sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the digital clock on the nightstand tick away the minutes.
02:14 AM.
03:45 AM.
05:30 AM.
At 06:30 AM, the first pale light of Christmas morning began to filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I dressed quickly in dark jeans, a thick wool sweater, and my winter coat, sliding the drawing securely inside my internal pocket.
By 07:15 AM, I heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs.
I stepped out into the living room. Chloe was standing near the massive Christmas tree, holding her stuffed rabbit, staring at the mountain of wrapped presents under the glowing lights. She didn't look excited. She looked exhausted, dark circles bruised beneath her pale eyes.
Michael walked into the living room behind her, wearing a designer cashmere sweater, holding an iPad in his hand.
“Merry Christmas, Andrew,” Michael said, barely glancing up from his screen. “You’re up early.”
“Family tradition,” I said cheerfully, forcing a warm smile. “Remember how Dad used to take us to the French bakery on 4th Street every Christmas morning to get hot cinnamon brioche while Mom slept in?”
Michael paused, a rare flicker of nostalgia softening his face. “Yeah. Dad loved that place.”
“I thought I’d take Chloe there right now,” I said, casually picking up her small pink winter coat from the armchair. “Give you and Victoria an hour of peace to enjoy your coffee before the chaos starts.”
Chloe looked up at me instantly, her little hands tightening around the rabbit’s ears.
Michael hesitated, looking at his iPad, then at his daughter. “I don't know, Andrew. Victoria usually likes us to open presents together at eight.”
“It’ll take thirty minutes, Mike,” I insisted smoothly, kneeling down to help Chloe slip her arms into her coat sleeves. “Fresh pastries. We’ll be back before the coffee finishes brewing. Come on, let your little brother do something nice for his niece.”
Michael looked at my relaxed expression, completely oblivious to the war occurring beneath my skin.
“Fine,” Michael grunted, returning to his screen. “Take my SUV. The keys are on the hook.”
“We’ll walk,” I said quickly. “It’s four blocks. The morning air will do her good.”
I didn't wait for him to process the oddity of walking in thirty-degree weather. I picked up Chloe, wrapped her in her coat, unlocked the heavy oak front door, and stepped out into the crisp, freezing Austin morning.
The door clicked shut behind us.
The moment we cleared the gated driveway and turned the corner onto the public sidewalk, I looked down at Chloe.
“We’re not going to the bakery, sweetie,” I whispered, my heart racing as I checked behind us for any cars following.
May you like
Chloe squeezed my hand tight. “Where are we going, Uncle Andrew?”
“We’re going to see a friend of mine,” I said, picking her up in my arms and breaking into a fast, steady power-walk toward 6th Street. “A doctor who is going to help us make sure the dark figure never comes into your room again.”
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